


Losing Hold

by RoboFrorg (JasperMoar)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Case Fic, Connor as a mentor, Connor went back to work at the DPD, Do not repost anywhere. AO3 only., Drama, M/M, Other, Post-Peaceful Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Post-Revolution, android virus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-07 23:37:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19095322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JasperMoar/pseuds/RoboFrorg
Summary: For all that life is messy, chaotic, excitingly unpredictable, there is something to be said about routine. While spontaneity might be the blood of life, routine is the bone. The structure. The frame around which to wrap your canvas.Connor finds peace in the months following the Revolution. He fits into Hank's home like he was always meant to be there. He finds purpose for himself- similar to that which he was built for, but personal enough to be satisfying. He even considers agreeing to Markus's request that he join the Integration Programs as a mentor.But a crisis looms, threatening the autonomy of deviants everywhere and the safety of those they love.





	1. Chapter 1

For all that life is messy, chaotic, excitingly unpredictable, there is something to be said about routine. While spontaneity might be the blood of life, routine is the bone. The structure. The frame around which to wrap your canvas. 

Hank had called him a flowery sap who spent too much time around artists when Connor attempted to relate his views on the subject of routine, but the lieutenant follows Connor’s recommended timeline more often than not. Up before or by 09:00, back in bed between 00:00 and 01:00. When workload permits, of course. Variation is, after all, unavoidable. Hank might bitch and moan about Connor’s prescribed routines, so to speak, but Connor has detected a 6% decrease in Hank’s average stress levels. Connor intends to up that number to at least 20% by the end of summer. Perhaps the peaceful fish Connor intends to purchase when the tank finishes cycling will help.

In the absence of Cyberlife-dictated routines, Connor has created his own for himself as well. Cohabitating with a human, Connor has learned to be flexible, but he does his best to stick to a general daily outline.

Exit standby with Hank. Make Hank breakfast if time and Hank permit. Walk Sumo. Update grocery list. On weekdays, Connor pulls his partner into the DPD around 09:00 (exactly 09:00, preferably, but his human is often reluctant to get out of bed). On weekends, Connor walks in the closest park for variety, and picks up groceries on his way home. Sometimes Hank comes with him. Evenings are spent jogging with Hank- more for his human’s benefit than Connor’s. There is a visit to New Jericho, to Markus and North and Simon, at least once a week when time permits. 

Connor has his routines. But this does not mean he does not deviate from plans. For instance, slipping out of bed early and walking Sumo to a dog-friendly cafe to acquire a latte for Hank, who typically slams the button of the drip coffee maker and calls it a day. An android couple- a blonde AC700 and a brunette of indeterminate model- sit with a human couple- two females, one 23, the other 26, both sporting tight black braids, one with longer hair than the other. A labrador chews on a toy beneath their table.

“Oh, aren’t you just _perfect_ ,” the barista- male, red-haired, blue-eyed, 18, name tag: Jennifer. Update: female- gushes, eyes locked on Sumo. Sumo knows the drill by now. The barista opens the ceramic dog treat container and tosses a bone-shaped biscuit. Sumo’s jowls flop as he lunges and catches the treat. Jennifer grins and locks eyes with Connor. “I love your dog. What can I do for you today?”

“One sixteen ounce latte with an extra shot, please.”

She makes small talk, which Connor responds to warmly. The arrival of two new people- 56, male, slight limp, and 38, male, bald- cuts the conversation off, but Connor smiles in thanks when Jennifer places the latte on the pickup counter. Connor places a lid on the beverage, and pulls Sumo out of the cafe.

They return to the house several blocks away in time to see Hank swearing at the coffee machine. The human is clothed in boxers and a shirt, and Connor presses a kiss to the man’s cheek. He turns over the latte to Hank, switches the coffee machine back off, and kneels down to remove Sumo’s leash.

“Good morning, Hank,” Connor says brightly. “We will need to depart within thirty six minutes to reach work on time.”

Hank grunts in response, leaning against the kitchen counter. Connor stands as Sumo ambles off in search of his food bowl. The sound of the massive dog crunching his food fills the kitchen.

They leave four minutes after Connor’s projected departure time. By far, not their worst delay. 

Just like every work-day for the past six weeks, Hank and Connor sift through the backlogged android cases. A special task force has been assigned to retroactively catalog unsolved cases involving crimes against and by androids committed before President Warren penned the executive order recognizing androids as a sapient race. The crimes are sorted based on leads, time passed, severity of transgression, and so on. Hank and Connor tend to be on the more practical side of things. The administrative face of the task force sends cases to the DPD, among other relevant precincts, to be pursued and hopefully solved. Meanwhile, Hank and Connor, while reviewing cases sent to them, are frequently given fresh cases as well.

Detective Reed is firmly situated in Captain Fowler’s office when they arrive. Detective Reed’s face is red and splotchy, and he slams his fist on Fowler’s desk, prompting the captain to snap back at the detective- likely a warning. The glass is soundproofed. Even Connor’s enhanced hearing cannot detect sound. The detective storms out of Fowler’s office. Blood pressure: approximately 160/100. Connor sees no need to provoke the detective further.

“Who pissed in _his_ cheerios,” Hank mutters when Reed shoves by them, lifting his voice just enough to be heard. So much for not provoking the detective.

Gavin sharply extends his middle finger, not bothering to turn and face the lieutenant.

“Fuck you too, old man,” he growls, before vanishing down the hall to the break room. 

Hank whistles in mock-awe.

“Jesus, to be a fly on Fowler’s wall. Not even a snappy comeback.”

Connor chooses not to respond. His lips tick up in a faint smile at Hank’s eagerness. The enmity between the two humans can be… amusing, at times. Other times it’s as obnoxious as anything Connor’s processors can conceive, but this moment counts as an amusing time.

Hank heaves a put-upon sigh when faced with Connor’s silence.

Δ Focus on workload  
**X Tease Hank**  
❍ Comment on Detective Reed

“Should I be worried about your obsession with Reed?” 

“I do _not_ have an obsession,” Hank vehemently denies. Connor nudges Hank with his elbow, before the older man slinks away, placing his desk between them. Connor follows, perching on the edge of Hank’s desk.

“I believe your interactions could be described by the phrase ‘pulling pigtails’. Should I be jealous?” Connor tilts his head, the faint smirk still comfortably on his face.

“Look, Con. The only pigtails I’m gonna pull are yours, alright?”

“I see. Is this a kink?”

Hank’s blood pressure rockets up over the course of two point seven seconds. 

“For fuck’s sake, Con. Can’t you go five minutes without saying weird shit?” 

“Theoretically, yes. That is _possible_.”

“Get off my desk. You’re such a goddamn pain in the ass.”

Connor swings his legs for a moment and then hops back up onto his feet. The smile he awards Hank is wide and gleaming.

“I don’t recall you ever complaining about that before.”

Hank’s head snaps up so quickly Connor is momentarily concerned the lieutenant will suffer whiplash. Red floods Hank’s face, creeps down his neck in splotches. Connor blinks, calibrating his thermal imaging in an instant, and memorizes the thermal map of Hank’s skin. He tucks the information away in the section of his memory partitioned for valuable memories of Hank.

The partition is quite large, and growing every day.

Before the lieutenant can splutter some sort of response, Connor brings up their workload for the day.

“An android and a human male were involved in an altercation last night. Both sustained injuries, none fatal. Both claim self-defense. We have been requested to interrogate the android while Detective Collins handles the human in an hour. I have accepted the request on behalf of both of us.” Connor sits down neatly, and Hank settles back in his own chair, glaring daggers at Connor. “We are also-”

“I _know_ , Connor. I’ve got a calendar too,” Hank gripes. 

Connor silences himself and waits patiently. He knows how this goes. They’ve been in this routine for over three months.

Hank gives up. He’s ornery in the mornings (and the evenings. And the middle of the day), but if Connor watches Hank long enough, his eyes big and brown and trusting, Hank will say:

“Fine. What else is there?”

And Connor will resume laying out their plans for the day. It’s routine.

The android- AV500, male-type, blonde hair, custom amber eyes likely purchased after the revolution. Name: Tom- lays out his version of events, of meeting a human woman for a drink. He insists he was attempting to prevent the involved human male- caucasian, blue eyes, brown hair. 22 years old. Name: Seymore Rogers- from harassing his date after leaving the bar to go for a walk. He laid hands on Seymore first, but Seymore escalated the altercation. This version of events is conflicted by Seymore’s, who claims he was trying to catch up with an old friend when the android ‘snapped’, but is corroborated by Tom’s date- human female, 25 years old, pink hair, brown eyes, irregular mole at the crease of her elbow. Name: Maya Li.

There are still cameras to be reviewed, witness statements to be rechecked, and the two conflicting parties need to meet in the presence of their respective lawyers. Tom wants this done with. Rogers wants to file charges, in which case a court will determine who the ultimate aggressor was. 

“You okay? Your thingy’s blinking like crazy.”

Connor tilts his head, focusing his attention on Hank. He smiles at his partner over the divider between their desks. The time is now 15:23.

“I’m fine, Hank. Just thinking.”

“Uh, yeah. I know.” Hank takes a sip of his breakroom coffee. “I can see the smoke pouring outa your ears.”

Connor knows full well that the words are only a figure of speech, but he allows himself to touch his ears as though checking. He records the fond, knowing smile Hank gives him, secrets it away with all the others.

They leave at 16:07, and Hank turns up the music in the car, the noise threatening to rattle their windows. Connor decreases the sensitivity of his audio processors and watches the scenery go by.

Sumo is ecstatic to see them. Connor takes the bullet and lets Hank shimmy past while he himself directs most of Sumo’s energy towards trotting around the strip of grass out front. As soon as the massive dog returns inside though, his nails clatter and skid across the flooring as he runs to find his one true master.

“Fuck, don’t drool on me! You’re not getting a- fine. Don’t tell Connor.”

The exchange is quickly followed by Sumo crunching on a treat, and the android shakes his head fondly. Of course.

“Those are for special occasions,” Connor calls, hanging up the leash.

“Sumo’s a special dog,” Hank replies mulishly. 

The sound of a beer can cracking open assaults Connor’s audio processors as he enters the kitchen. A wooden board hangs on the wall, stained dark brown, with the words ‘Days Sober’ carved into the bottom half. The upper half is claimed by a smooth display, erased by Hank daily and replaced with an updated number. They’re on day nine. Hank’s record is forty three days. 

Connor has learned to let Hank pace himself, rather than try to micromanage Hank’s alcohol consumption, so he says nothing about making sure Hank limits his intake to avoid intoxication. All that does is make Hank feel attacked, or inferior, which makes him more likely, not less, to overindulge.

“Do you have any preferences for dinner tonight?”

“Yeah, a burger.”

“We have ground turkey,” Connor counters, knowing Hank means beef. 

“Jesus Christ, Con, a man can’t survive offa rabbit food,” the lieutenant gripes. Connor has been making an effort to ensure Hank’s health and extend his life. Some days Hank is less grateful than others.

“I would be very concerned if a rabbit were eating turkey, Hank.” 

Turkey burgers it is, then. 

By the time dinner is ready, Hank has consumed a second low ABV beer, and has opted for lemonade with dinner. Connor tests the sugar content and levels Hank with a disapproving look.

“Get off my dick, Con. It’s lemonade.”

Hank knows Connor well enough to take note of the mischievous gleam in the android’s eye, and a broad, lined hand clamps down over Connor’s mouth before the android has the chance to comment on the choice of phrase.

“No.”

Connor sits at the table with Hank, watching his partner eat. Hank had originally found this to be unsettling- ‘Fucking creepy’, in his own words- but they’ve found a good balance. Rather than outright stare, Connor toys with his coin and the fidget spinner Hank gave him, the one that had Hank red in the face laughing the first time Connor used it (he still does not understand the humor there).

Hank insists on doing the dishes if Connor cooks. Connor cleans much more efficiently, but Connor presses a kiss to the side of Hank’s neck, pecks the bearded jaw, and then let Hank wave him away.

When the dishes are done and piled haphazardly in the drying rack (a replacement for the recently-broken dishwasher has not yet been ordered. Connor rectifies this immediately), Connor cajoles Hank into taking Sumo for a walk. There is a park a few blocks away, with a large fenced-in area for dogs to roam off-leash. Their backyard is sufficient, but Connor enjoys the park.

“Why don’t we just _drive_ there?” Hank gripes, tugging on Sumo’s leash to keep the animal under control. The sun is setting over Detroit, painting the sky in pinks and yellows. 

“Walking is beneficial for cardiovascular health,” Connor recites. “In addition, studies have strongly linked exercise to improved emotional states.” Hank rolls his eyes, and Connor tacks on, earnestly, “I also enjoy walking with you.”

The flush is creeping back under Hank’s collar, and the lieutenant keeps his eyes firmly on the sidewalk ahead.

“Yeah, well. You ‘enjoy’ a lotta weird shit.”

The park isn’t quite so full of children, with the sun going down. Mostly it’s couples walking the paths, joggers getting in their day’s exercise. Connor, in an attempt to respect individual privacy, keeps his identity software tamped down. If not relevant to a case, he has learned pulling up people’s medical, criminal, and personal histories, right down to blood type and STDs is creepy and morally unsound. He can’t fully prevent himself from analyzing those he passes by. After all, he’s the most advanced android Cyberlife ever produced. His processing capacity and ability to take in and analyze information in the fraction of a heartbeat is rivaled only by unstable, experimental crystal data cores. Long story short, humans make split-second judgments based on appearances. Connor makes split-second analyses.

The joggers passing them are male, one older than the other, both of the same ethnic background. Facial similarities indicate father and son. The android- WM500, 2027 model, female-type, blonde hair- walking hand-in-hand with a small child- South Korean descent, female, age 7 (?), black hair, recently engaging in play-activities- step away from a swingset. The human couple- teenagers, one 16, the other 17- climbing a tree together- one female, the other male, both caucasian, one brunette, the other black-haired- 

“Stop zoning out! Chrissake, it’s creepy,” Hank grumbles, nudging against Connor.

“I do not ‘zone out’. My processors are capable of handling simultaneous tasks.”

“Uh huh.” Hank scratches his jaw, and when he lets his hand drop again, Connor takes it. Another flush, another thermal map saved in Connor’s memory. The lieutenant doesn’t pull away.

Perhaps someday, Hank will accept the affection as his due, rather than something unexpected and out of the ordinary.

“Sumo, would you like to go chase the ducks?” Connor asks. Sumo doesn’t understand a word Connor says, but the eager, engaging tone used catches the dog’s attention instantly.

“Aww, c’mon, Connor. He’ll be soaked!” Conor deftly snags the leash from Hank’s hand, and presses a kiss to the corner of Hank’s mouth.

“Then I suppose you had better stop me,” he teases. 

Connor bursts into a sprint, Sumo eagerly galloping alongside, trying to grab the leash in his jaws. Hank yells behind them, in hot pursuit. He is no match for an android of Connor’s caliber, however, so Connor reaches the duck pond and removes Sumo’s leash well before Hank catches up. Sumo soars into the water, scattering a cluster of ducks overwintering in the area. The ducks are in no danger of being caught. Sumo is not nearly agile enough.

“Fuck,” Hank wheezes, bracing a hand on Connor’s steady shoulder when he catches up. “Why do you always do this?”

“Always is an exaggeration, Hank. I-”

“Yeah yeah, spare me the statistics. You’re the one who’s gonna hafta give him a bath.”

Across the way, an android- untyped, indeterminate model, violet hair, jeans, grey sweater- sits on a bench, watching the birds as she has done every time Connor has come to this spot since February. Connor has spoken with her in the past, learned that she prefers female terms, and that she is among those many androids uncertain what to do with freedom. He has tried to point her in the direction of New Jericho and their integration programs, but she remains a fixture in the park. Connor waves, and after a moment, she waves back. Connor returns his attention to Sumo. Water drips from his fur as he plods from the pond to run back to his masters. 

“Sumo- Sumo no!” Hank yelps. Connor steps neatly in front of the lieutenant, taking most of the spray as Sumo shakes the water from his fur. The dog sits heavily, tongue lolling from his mouth. “Well aren’t you proud’a yourself, you fat mutt. Move your ass, Connor. I don’t need a fucking shield from my own dog.”

“Alright.” Connor steps away from Hank, crouching in front of Sumo. “Hey Sumo! You’re such a good boy! Hey, look!” Sumo is quivering with excited energy, and Connor directs his eyes towards Hank. “Go get him!”

“What? No!”

It’s too late, though. Sumo bounds the short distance to Hank and barrels into the lieutenant’s legs. Hank stumbles back and hits the ground, and Sumo wags his damp tail as he stands over his master. He boofs in Hank’s face and drags his tongue over Hank’s skin in a sloppy lick, while Hank tries and fails to defend himself. Connor grins at Hank when his partner chooses to offer up a glare, and Hank’s expression softens minutely. 

The outing is cut short after that. While the year is set to be considerably warmer than any in recorded history, the March air is still quite cold, and Hank now wears damp clothes thanks to Sumo. Connor corals Sumo into the bathroom when they return home, and behind him, in the bedroom, Connor can hear Hank undressing, dropping his damp clothing in a disorganized heap. 

Once Sumo no longer smells of pond-water and the mud has all washes down the drain, Connor towels the dog off while Hank takes his turn in the shower. The lieutenant studiously avoids looking at Connor. While he has come to accept Connor entering the bathroom while he showers, Hank still feels embarrassment at exposing himself. It’s a work in progress.

Sumo is mostly dry by the time Hank goes to bed, shortly after midnight. Nonetheless, Connor lays a towel down outside the bedroom door, which he hears Sumo claim as a bed moments after the door clicks shut. Hank is already in bed, and he clicks off the lamp as Connor crawls under the covers. From what Connor has observed, Hank’s favorite position is that of a ‘little spoon’, no matter how much he grumbles. Hank falls asleep 26.8% more quickly with Connor pressed to his back, which Connor considers to be reason enough to slide up behind Hank and wrap his arms around the burly human, after hooking the charge cable into the port of his calf.

“Why do I always hafta be the little spoon?” he gripes, but he doesn’t attempt to evade Connor’s touch. 

“There is no shame in being held,” Connor replies, lips pressed to Hank’s neck, against the long grey hair. “I promise I won’t tell.”

Connor remains alert until he registers a change in Hank’s breathing patterns. These quiet little moments are precious. He rests his forehead against the back of Hank’s shoulder, and flicks through the day’s objective log. Each and every one was set by Connor himself, but he can’t- he always checks. Every day. He can’t shake the concern- the _fear_ \- that someday, somehow, a command highlighted in Cyberlife blue will worm its way into his log without his notice. That Amanda, despite her servers being resoundingly crushed by a pissed-off North, will sink her claws into Connor again, and take from him these precious moments. 

Hank has said that anxiety should be ignored, lest it take over one’s life. Connor isn’t entirely certain how healthy that willful ignorance truly is, but in this, he listens to Hank. He is safe, his objective log is not blue, and he is no machine.

He counts Hank’s heartbeats, and slides himself into standby mode, lulled by the steady rhythm. It’s routine. It’s stable. It’s home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's go ahead and add chapter 2 for the sake of introducing a hint of the main conflict.

“Alright, listen up,” Captain Fowler barks at the gathered officers and investigators. The gathered individuals quiet down, and all attention turns to the front of the room. The Captain stands in front of a transparent display board. “At 7:30 this morning, Trinity Nichols walked out her parent’s front door. She is six years old, three feet, eight inches tall. Last seen wearing cornrows in her hair, a blue sweater, and pink pants. This is Trinity.”

A picture of a bashful little girl expands on the display board, large enough to be seen from the back of the room, before shrinking again and settling in the center of the board.

“Her nanny, a female android named Hope Nichols, was supposed to walk her to school. Both of them are now off the grid.”

A picture of Hope blinks into life beside Trinity’s, and the Captain draws a red line between the two of them.

“We have reason to believe that Hope has kidnapped Trinity, and may be a danger to her. According to Mr. and Mrs. Nichols, Hope’s been behaving strangely since last Wednesday, but this behavior was attributed to Hope adjusting to autonomy. However, there’s a difference between being culture-shocked and stealing a kid. This happened in our district, so it’s in our hands. Agent Perez from the FBI is here to assist. She has twenty five years of experience handling child kidnappings, so she’ll be taking the reins.”

Fowler pauses, looking out over the gathered people.

“We are the best Detroit has to offer. We _will_ be working round the clock until Mr. and Mrs. Nichols have their baby girl back. We can do this.” 

He smacks a hand to the board. 

“Let’s find this kid.”

The room bursts into action. Agent Perez snaps orders, divides them into teams. The officers are sent to comb plotted regions, starting at the borders of their jurisdiction and moving inward. Surrounding precincts have been alerted as well, and an amber alert flashes across advertising periodically, displaying both android and child’s pictures. Public transport workers have also been alerted to keep an eye out for people of Trinity and Hope’s descriptions trying to board their vehicles. Investigators hit the streets, looking for anyone, anywhere, who knows where Trinity might be.

“Anderson, Connor! Here, now!” Agent Perez barks.

“What a woman,” Hank mutters sarcastically, and Connor feels no shame in elbowing his partner sharply, before briskly striding to Agent Perez with Hank ambling behind.

“I’ve been informed that you two come as a package deal,” she announces, flicking through her pad of information. “Don’t make me regret keeping you paired. Trinity comes first. Connor.” She turns to address Connor fully, and the android meets her eyes.

“Ma’am.”

“I read your first mission report. I need you available 24/7 for negotiation, although I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Of course. Do you have my contact information?”

“Captain Fowler provided me with everyone’s numbers. I’m distributing them now.”

Moments later, Connor’s systems receive an alert. He hears the nearly inaudible buzz of Hank’s phone, indicating that the lieutenant, as well as the others assembled and dispersing, have also received the information.

“In the meantime, the two of you are going to sit down and go through all the information we currently have. If you think you have a lead, contact me first, and then pursue it. Dismissed.”

“Ma’am,” Hank acknowledges. Connor dips his head, accepting the mission. Updated objective: Locate Trinity Nichols.

Hank prints out report after report, preferring to handle physical copies of their current data. Connor, by contract, interfaces directly with his computer terminal. 

Hope Nichols, produced in 2035. Model AX300, purchased December 18, 2035 to aid in the care of Trinity. According to Mr. and Mrs. Nichols, Hope and Trinity bonded, and immediately after the revolution, she was offered a paid position as a live-in nanny. By all accounts, the Nichols view Hope more like family than ‘the help’. According to Hope’s own friends- interviewed by investigators as the hours trickle by- Hope loves Trinity like a sister.

“What’s going on in that big brain ‘a yours?” Hank rumbles, leaning towards the divider between their desks. Connor glances up. He is tempted to tease Hank regarding his lack of an actual organic brain, but now is not the time.

“I can find no motive for Hope to kidnap Trinity.” Connor removes his hand from the terminal. His brow is furrowed. “The reports being sent in indicate a genuinely loving relationship between Hope and Trinity, and mutual respect between Mr. and Mrs. Nichols and Hope.” Connor gestures vaguely. “Hope has friends, but has not contacted any of them. She has no significant other, and her position as Trinity’s nanny has not been threatened. In fact, the Nichols officially hired her on paper two weeks ago.” He tilts his head, looking at Hank. “I don’t understand.”

“Let’s go over the ‘strange behavior’.”

The sun has set on the first day. Hank has called a neighbor to walk and feed Sumo, and cots have been brought in. The first twenty four hours are critical in cases like these. 

“On Wednesday the 23rd, Hope began exhibiting unusual behavior.” Connor pulls up the interview, flicking through the data points behind his eyes. “Mrs. Nichols first took note when Hope dropped a jar of relish.”

“So?” Hank sips his coffee, watching Connor intently. “People drop things all the time.”

“Androids don’t.” He pulls up Hope’s diagnostic records. The most recent full-system check-up occurred February 25th. “All systems checked out less than a month ago. Her reflexes wouldn’t have deteriorated so drastically over such a short period of time.” Connor chews on his bottom lip. “What happened Wednesday?”

He reaches for the terminal again, then pauses, looking up at Hank.

“You should eat.”

“'m fine. Got coffee.”

“I insist.”

“Look, Con, we’ve got a kid to find.” 

Connor swiftly leans across the desk, the edge digging into his hips, and steals Hank’s coffee from him. He licks the edge of the cup while Hank makes an exaggerated gagging sound. 

“Don’t just-”

“Your blood sugar is too low for optimal concentration. Go eat. You’ll work more effectively that way.”

Connor somewhat regrets this blank-check of a command when Hank returns just over an hour later carrying two pizza boxes. The sodium content alone is cause for concern, but Connor bites his tongue.

“Got anything?”

The board heading the room is now plastered with facts and theories, some in the form of physical adhesive notes, and most typed or written on the board itself. 

Connor has something to add as well.

He’s spent the last hour tracking Hope, beginning Wednesday evening when a neighbor’s security camera captured her returning home with groceries for dinner- just one mostly-empty paper bag, indicating an ingredient may have been forgotten for dinner. He rapidly scans backwards, watching events unfold in reverse, jumping from camera to camera to keep the android in his sights. Nothing unusual happens Wednesday- at least, nothing he could see on cameras he can access without another warrant. Tuesday, however, catches his attention.

It’s something simple. There’s a moment, 4:16 to 4:19 pm, when Hope appears panicked on the cameras at a children’s park. Then Trinity runs up to her, and all tension leaves her form as she fusses over the child. 

Trinity offers something up for inspection- something flat and round, approximately 1.5 inches in diameter and dark in color on the black-and-white recording. Hope appears to take it, _flinches_ in a blink-and-you-miss-it moment, then drops it, taking Hope by the hand. Cameras then place them as walking home after that.

Connor shows Hank this interaction. Hank doesn’t notice the flinch, attributes it to the low frame rate.

“Hank, trust me.” Connor flicks the seven-second loop onto his computer monitor. Hope crouches down to Trinity’s level. Trinity offers her treasure. Hope takes it. Hope flinches. “What was she holding?”

Hank is busy inhaling his third slice of pizza, but he swallows and says, “Go talk to the dragon lady while I finish this. You’ve got those crazy night-eyes, right?”

“Right.” Connor doesn’t waste time specifying what his ‘crazy night eyes’ actually are capable of. Instead, he stands abruptly and brings the strange few moments to Agent Perez’s attention.

“It’s been almost a week since that timestamp,” Agent Perez warns. Connor knows this. The video was recorded last Tuesday. It is now the following Monday. “If you find something, great. If it takes more than an hour, come back.” She turns and moves her energy drink into her non-dominant hand, then picks up a stylus. ‘Possible software tampering?’ she writes above Hope’s head, circling the theory. “Could be nothing, but if that little rock screwed with her head, we might have a bigger problem.”

The focus is still on Trinity, however, and a search at the park turns up nothing. Either the object really was just an interesting rock presented by a proud toddler, or someone threw it away, and it now rests in the city dump.

Connor stands exactly where Hope stood in the recording, his LED spinning yellow. Where is Hope? More importantly, where is Trinity? Why would an android who had helped raise one child for three years, and who was guaranteed to continue doing so- who by all accounts genuinely loved the child- suddenly and without warning steal her after nearly a week of strange behavior, unless there was some outside influence at play?

The critical 24-hour window closes, but with no sign of Trinity, and no- no body found, the task force is still working hard. Hour 37 comes, and with it, a sighting. Hope has attempted to board a bus, but the driver recognized her from the amber-alert. Hope fled on foot with Trinity in her arms.

The siting is critical. All available officers form a perimeter around an estimated region of the Forest Park area. While considered a fairly desirable neighborhood, there are still clusters composed mainly of demolished lots, and condemned buildings. As such, there are plenty of places to hide.

Connor and Hank join the search. Hank has dark circles under his eyes, but he chugs a highly-caffeinated, evidently foul-tasting concoction, and declares himself good to go. At 16:23, March 30th, Connor receives a ping from Agent Perez. He takes Hank by the wrist and drags him away from the couple they’re interviewing.

“Trinity has been located. Hope is holding her over the edge of a seven-story building,” Connor explains, and that silences any and all protests.

Hank flicks on the lights hidden beneath the grill of his car, and races through the streets to the location related by Agent Perez. The building is one slated for destruction to make way for an updated apartment complex. The demolition date is set for May 18th. Connor looks up as he steps out of the car. An ambulance is already present, and Mr. and Mrs. Nichols stand between two officers, obviously distressed. More officers hold back the curious crowd gathered.

“Connor, Anderson, with me,” Agent Perez commands, and they enter the building.

The structural integrity of the former office building is sound. There is no risk in taking the stairs. Hank’s breathing is labored, but Agent Perez strides upwards with purposeful determination.

“Officers Grady and Fao located Hope one block from this location. They pursued her into the building, but when they emerged onto the roof after her, they saw Hope standing on the ledge with Trinity in her arms. Hope has not responded to any questions or commands. Trinity appears dehydrated and disoriented. We need to end this.”

“Understood.” 

They pause before the door to the rooftop access, and Connor straightens his tie. The suit he wears is one of his own choosing, but he nonetheless prefers the classic tie and blazer combination.

“Who else is out there?” he asks.

“Three officers and a paramedic. They have been ordered not to engage.”

“Good.” 

Connor opens the door.

Hope stands on the ledge surrounding the roof, facing the four humans already present. Her face is blank apart from the rhythmic blinking of her eyes. Her LED is a steady red. Trinity is braced on Hope’s hip, and her little face is tucked against Hope’s neck. The child looks to be exhausted.

 **Δ Understanding**  
X Threatening  
❍ Realistic

Agent Perez and Hank follow him out, but hang back with the other humans while Connor steps carefully forward.

“Hello Hope,” he calls, voice loud in the relative quiet. Hope does not respond. “My name is Connor. I’m here to help you.” 

He takes another few steps forward, hands clearly visible and posture deliberately nonthreatening. He now stands in the center of the dirty concrete roof. He can’t help but think about his first mission. The stakes here are just as high.

“I know you love Trinity. But look at her. She’s sick.” Hope tilts her head- the first response Connor has seen. It’s a choppy, sudden motion, but it’s better than the blank, blinking gaze. “Come down off the ledge. Whatever has happened, we can fix this.”

For a breathtaking moment, Hope seems to be ready to do just that. To step down. To turn Trinity over, but in another jerky, rapid motion, she twists her fingers into Trinity’s dirty sweater and holds the child dangling over empty air.

From seven stories up, Trinity has no chance of surviving the fall. Connor holds his hands up, backing off a step.

“Hope please.” Trinity struggles, her face darkening as the bunched-up neck of the sweater digs into her throat. She makes pitiful whimpering noises, and a full-body shiver runs through Hope. “She loves you. She trusts you. And you love her. Marquette and Danielle love you too. They’ve said they see you as another daughter. Don’t do this.” They wait in silence for a moment. Connor’s eyes slide from Hope to Trinity. The pressure of the sweater around her neck isn’t enough to fully cut off oxygen, but she can’t take a full breath, and she’s beginning to panic. 

Connor inches closer again, trying to carefully put himself within lunging range. If he can’t talk Hope down, he will need to catch Trinity.

And then Hope does the oddest thing. Her arm wavers, and her jaw clenches. She seems to fight a battle with herself, struggling to control her own synthetic muscles. Connor tenses, preparing to jump forwards, but Hope suddenly tosses Trinity to the ground. The child hits concrete with a sharp thud, and immediately begins to cry. Connor motions behind him, and the paramedic immediately rushes forward, gathering the battered child up and pulling her out of harm’s way. All that’s left is Hope.

“Come down from the ledge, Hope. We can talk about this.”

He steps closer, reaching out in supplication, but she jerks back, her heel skirting off the edge and into thin air before she catches herself. She’s shaking violently, her LED pulsing scarlet.

“Don’t! There’s something- It’s- there’s something in my- in my- in my- it’s trying to-”

Her voice crackles with static, and suddenly she seizes, convulses. Connor leaps forwards in an attempt to catch her, but Hope manages to stumble away out of his reach. Out of his reach, and right over the edge.

There are screams down below, and Connor braces his hand on the ledge, LED spinning red as he watches her fall. It lasts a handful of seconds at most, before his audio processors pick up a sickening crunch. Blue blood pools around the crumpled form of Hope.

Connor pushes away from the side and bolts through the door. Hank shouts behind him, but Connor has no time to waste.

_There’s something- It’s- there’s something in my- in my- in my- it’s trying to-_

When he emerges from the building, he is immediately set upon by the frantic parents. 

“She’s fine. Dehydrated and scraped up, but otherwise healthy. You can go up if you like.”

He disengages from the Nichols and approaches Hope’s broken body. She’s managed to drag herself to the wall and sits upright, her skin flickering in and out of view. Her LED still pulses red, and she lashes out weakly at the integrative paramedics attempting to reach her. 

“Hope, what did you mean? There’s something in your head?” he murmurs urgently. She can’t respond, though, barely holding on to life. Connor estimates sixteen seconds before shutdown. No time to waste.

His exposed fingers gleam white as he reaches to interface. Hope tries to bat him away, but he responds by catching her wrist, using that as the interface point. 

Immediately, Hope shoves a chaotic mass of _dangerdangermiseryrunrunrun_ his way. While he attempts to process that, however, something else latches onto him.

It feels like uncountable gleaming hooks spearing into his very code, trying to rip him from his body. He reacts on instinct, manually severing the corrupted code from his main being and breaking the interface immediately, thirium pump pounding in his chest to accommodate the surge of energy needed. He feels uncoordinated and distant, as his code tries to repair itself. The procedure is for use in emergency only. In truth, Connor could have severely damaged himself, but those _hooks_...

He scans Hope, attempting to locate anything physical. A non-standard chip. Evidence of tampering. Anything. She is, however, too damaged to adequately analyze in detail without additional equipment. There is also the possibility that the hooks, whatever they are, are purely digital in nature.

“Connor! What the fuck was that?” Hank demands, sprinting to Connor’s side. Connor opens his mouth to respond, but only warped static comes out. He grimaces, and glares at Hank, gesturing towards Hope’s shattered chassis. “You, fix him.” Hank jabs a finger at the integrative paramedics. “And don’t touch _her_ until Connor can explain.”

Connor could technically calibrate his own vocal processor, but it would take longer than having the integrative paramedics do so for him. Not to mention, his code, his _essence_ , is still frayed and healing. He’s too busy cross-checking backups and repairing his software to waste resources on a fixing non-essential process like speaking.

The integrative paramedics fix Connor’s voice fairly quickly, while Hope’s fall-site is cataloged. Agent Perez fields questions from reporters, and Hank hovers by Connor’s side, but as soon as he’s able to talk, Agent Perez excuses herself and approaches Connor.

“Hope was being strongly influenced by a malicious factor,” he announces before Agent Perez has a chance to question him. “I damaged myself preventing the factor from jumping to me. Don’t allow Hope to be connected to any online devices. She’ll need to be analyzed in quarantine.” 

Agent Perez looks _tired_. It is to be expected. She, as well as every other individual working the case, is human.

But Connor looks over her shoulder, sees Mrs. Nichols holding Trinity’s hand in the back of the ambulance as the child receives fluids via IV, Mr. Nichols standing, leaning through the door to be as close to his family as possible, and he knows without a doubt that the stress of the past few days has been worth it.

“I get the feeling this isn’t over,” Agent Perez mutters, but in the next breath, she smiles. “But Trinity is safe, and that’s what matters for now.” 

Human officers collect the shattered body of Hope. Hank forbids Connor from trying to touch her again. Not that Connor’s really had trouble disobeying his partner before, but it’s the principle of the thing. The media is dealt with, and a clean-up crew is called in to handle the thirium pooled on the sidewalk. A quick inquiry places Trinity in the hospital, already bouncing back in the way only a resilient child can.

There are drinks in the evening, a celebration of a job well done, and Connor allows Hank to purchase him a thirium concoction. Connor cannot become intoxicated, but he has been informed that drinking also serves a social purpose. Hank drinks one whiskey, and when the bartender returns and asks about a refill, Hank grinds his teeth together and requests water instead. Hank’s blood pressure is elevated. Connor estimates his stress levels at 53% due to resisting the urge to indulge his addiction. 

Connor touches Hank’s wrist, gaining his partner’s attention.

“I love you,” Connor says simply, and Hank’s stress levels drop to 18%, replaced by embarrassment which can be easily read on Hank’s face. Distraction has become Connor’s favorite method of aiding Hank in his attempt to remain sober. Compliments and declarations of love and affection appear to be most effective, which pleases Connor. Something warm and tingly and unidentified washes through him when he sees Hank affected by his words. The urge to kiss his partner can be overwhelming in moments like these. Fowler is kind enough to turn a blind eye towards their relationship, but only so long as it doesn’t affect their work or the work of those around them. Kissing is fairly benign. Theoretically, they could get away with it. But- Connor has a tendency to take things a little too far. 

So he must reign himself in. And settle for _thoroughly_ rewarding his partner later, when they’re alone at home.

“I know,” Hank gruffs. Connor runs his fingers through Hank’s hair, scratching at the lieutenant’s scalp with his ceramic nails. 

“Let’s go home. You seem tired.”

“Fucking _exhausted_.” 

Hank drinks his water rapidly and pays for that first drink. They slip out, having remained towards the outside of the celebration. In the morning, there will be reports to write, and evidence to reanalyze. Connor hypothesizes the Nichols have been targeted, that Hope was not in control when taking Trinity. She may have merely been a means to an end. Hijacking an android is very rare, but not unheard of. Since the revolution, those instances have dropped in frequency to almost nonexistence. Deviancy is, apparently, an effective antivirus. How do you accurately depict something in a constant state of chaos?

This narrows the pool of potential perpetrators significantly.

For the moment, however, Connor thinks that perhaps they can have a night to relax.

When Sumo- ecstatic to see his people home again- is walked and fed, Connor finds himself straddling Hank on the sofa, fingers buried in Hank’s hair as they kiss long and slow and deep. Hank’s hands meet Connor’s chassis where his skin has flickered out. Connor is perpetually eager for more and more and more, but when his hands wander down to slip beneath Hank’s waistband, the lieutenant stops him. Hank is exhausted, and Connor respects this.

“‘s getting late,” Hank rumbles, mouthing at Connor’s jaw. “Should probably go to bed soon.”

Connor hums in acknowledgement, but makes no effort to remove himself. Hank sighs, pulling Connor’s head down to rest on his shoulder. 

“C’mon, Connor. I’m gonna throw out my back if I hafta carry you.”

“You have yet to truly injure yourself handling me in any capacity,” Connor disagrees.

“Yeah, well. I’m getting older every day. C’mon, move it.”

With a resigned sigh, Connor climbs off of Hank’s lap and offers a hand to pull Hank up. Connor pats the snoring Sumo as they pass the dog on the way to bed, and when they settle in for the night, Connor tucks himself behind Hank as per usual. Hank doesn’t complain about the position tonight. Instead, he simply settles in with a tired groan. 

Sleep comes quickly for the lieutenant, but Connor remains awake, consumed by thoughts of the case. Are the Nichols still in danger? Was this a random, complicated attack, or are the Nichols being targeted specifically? Was Hope meant to simply take Trinity? If so, where was she intended to end up? Would there have been a ransom demand? Would Trinity merely have been murdered to hurt the Nichols, or send a message?

But she is safe. Safe, and at home. Connor composes his report from where he rests with his nose buried in Hank’s hair and attaches a memo suggesting at least one officer be posted with the Nichols for their safety until the DPD can rule out their being targeted.

He sends the report shortly after midnight. Hank will complain about Connor finishing his report ahead of time, but Connor believes his comments should be taken into consideration as soon as possible if they haven’t already been implemented by someone else. 

They saved the day, but the danger is not gone.


End file.
